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I huffed under my breath. It wasn’t the house, was it? No. It was him. “Stubborn. Controlling. Stuck in the goddamn mud,” I muttered, staring at the books without seeing a single title. “This one comes with me,” I mimicked under my breath. “You didn’t ask me what I wanted, did you?”

My jaw clenched.

“You just take me from everything I know and bring me here…” I exhaled sharply. “To this prison.”

Silence pressed in.

My focus sharpened.

Then softened.

“For what?” The words slipped out quieter than I meant. “Why am I here?”

The shelves blurred. My breath caught as the question settled deeper. My mind scrambled, searching for something that made sense.

Did he think I was… what?

Broken?

The word turned over in my head, heavy and familiar. My jaw tightened as I reached for it, clung to it—tried to make it fit.

Was that it?

Pity?

I searched harder. For the look. The shift. The hesitation. The way people softened their voice when they spoke to me. The way their eyes flicked to my hand—then away too quickly.

I knew that look.

I lived in it.

But he⁠—

He didn’t.

My head turned toward the doorway without thinking. He hadn’t flinched. Hadn’t softened. Hadn’t made me feel like I was something that needed to be handled carefully.

The anger shifted.

Something heavier took its place. Not soft or kind. Just… solid. Unsettling.

I swallowed. Is that what he saw? The thought came quieter now. Not something to push away. Something I didn’t understand. Something that felt too close to look at. An ache cracked through my chest. I turned from the doorway before the feeling could settle.

One sharp breath and I forced myself back. Back into this. Back to the house. I turned instead to the rows of books in front of me. Cracked spines. Frayed edges. Dust clinging to some of them like they hadn’t been touched in years. Like the bones of something left out too long.

I ran my hand along them, fingers dragging lightly across the uneven edges before I pulled one free and turned away.

My library.

The dining room.

My wing.

That’s what he called them. But I knew what they were. A cage. No leaving. No wandering. No east wing. Whatever that meant.

I stepped through the doorway, my gaze catching on the dining room as I passed. The table sat untouched. Chairs pulled in too neatly.

No life left in it.